


Stretch Marks

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Body Image, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Hatred, mild body dysphoria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kenma doesn't think anything good when his eyes meet his reflection, but he has to learn to take baby steps when it comes to realizing how beautiful he supposedly is.</p>
<p>or</p>
<p>Kuroo loves him for who he his and for all the marks on his skin, not in spite of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stretch Marks

**Author's Note:**

> Here ya go, have a cute one-shot because it's v important to realize your body is beautiful and also because I love writing a caring cat boyfriend. :-)

Kenma stares at himself, reflection still and solid in his bathroom mirror.

 

It’s dirty; he doesn’t usually bother to keep most of his things clean, and the bathroom connected to his bedroom is no exception. There are water stains on the smooth glass and strands of hair covering the countertop and the tile floor. He supposes he should stop brushing his head so hard, but it’s the only thing that works to untangle the mop that is his hair. Apart from two hairbrushes laid out next to the sink, there’s a single tube of toothpaste and a bright red toothbrush, which seems to be the only thing colorful in the otherwise dimly lit, beige-painted room.

 

His eyes meet their reflection. He’s always hated them the least of all of his features, mostly due to how they shone even in the most dismal settings. The lightbulb in the light fixture on the ceiling kept flickering and he made a mental note — one that was scribbled and would probably be forgotten later —to replace it, if he was ever able to find a step stool to reach. 

 

In his mind, Kenma assumed people saw him as fragile. Part of him agreed, whereas another part protested, with the logic of how he saw himself as taller and stronger than he actually was. He stood at 169 centimeters, 170 on a good day, and that’s all he’d probably ever get to. The markings on the bathroom doorframe showed his progression throughout his school years, and the rapid growth spurts slowed to a halt right after he’d started his second year at Nekoma. Kenma would never reach the heights of the comic book characters he idolized as a child. He wouldn’t look impressive to his opponents when he walked out onto the volleyball court, but then again, his lack of luster was an attribute that his coach found delicious. No one suspected the willowy boy to be such a force to be reckoned with. Even he never would’ve guessed himself to be so misleading.

 

His fingers grace the hem of his t-shirt, and hesitantly, as if turning over a rock and hoping not to find slimy worms or bugs, Kenma lifts it up, taking a peek at the paler skin of his stomach. He doesn’t think much, but he does know it’s disgusting. It’s absolutely unfavorable to see the white marks stretching out over his hip bones and under the little tummy he did have, because they look like scars and it tarnishes the otherwise smooth skin that covers the rest of him.

 

Kenma frowns. The last time he remembered looking clean was before he got to high school, before he started hitting growth spurts like home runs in a game of baseball. In the back of his mind, he knows it’s normal to have marks when you spend so much time growing into your body, but he can’t focus on being rational when all he wants to do is scrub the striped skin from his stomach.

 

His t-shirt comes off in one swift motion.

 

He’s always thought of himself as wrong. Everything about his body made Kenma feel slightly uncomfortable; it was a strange feeling, because he couldn’t particularly do anything to escape it, seeing as he was kind of trapped between the muscles and bones that he was born with. His eyes scan his torso as he looks into the mirror. The stretch marks are so stark in contrast to the rest of him, but he pushes the hatred from his mind for a moment. He’s been questioned before in the locker room after volleyball practice. He doesn’t recall ever taking his shirt off in the midst of his teammates, despite the lack of modesty all of them seemed to be okay with. Kenma would shrink into the corner, employing a handy trick he learned from his older cousin, who had taught him the way that girls changed clothes without actually taking them off. He would slide a fresh t-shirt under his soiled one and maneuver his arms inside all whilst keeping his midriff hidden from view.

 

He had learned to get by. No one had really noticed, until Lev had butted in and rudely suggested that Kenma was a crossdresser, which was why he never lifted his shirt up to his chest in fear of exposing things that weren’t  _ actually _ there, but he seemed to believe were. This had led to speculation, which Kuroo had stopped, but Kenma still felt uneasy now whenever he had to be around his teammates in the locker rooms. What was he supposed to argue?  _ Sorry, I can’t show my body because, get this, I despise every aspect of my physical appearance!  _

 

It was somewhat comical, how they cared so much. 

 

Then again, it wasn’t funny at all considering how Kenma felt the same way.

 

He pinches the tiny bit of fat in between the bones of his hips. Under his touch, he feels the silk smooth hair of a happy trail, black and softly spreading the area proceeding down into the waistband of the sweatpants he wears. Taking a razor to it would be easy, but Kenma was afraid of not being able to put it down. He’d always considered shaving his legs as well, but constantly showing them off in practice wouldn’t bring a positive response from any of his team that would take notice, he thought. He was not a hairless cat. Kenma could live with the hair, because wasn’t that what boys were supposed to look like? Hairy legs, hairy arms, beards, and yet, the length of the hair on his head threw him off—Kenma decided on being an ambiguous mix between female and male, and he was living with it.

 

The t-shirt goes back on, and Kenma is growing tired of looking in the mirror, but it’s so difficult to pull himself away. When he finally does, he goes to his bedroom and lays out on the floor. It’s a routine he is comfortable with, beginning with crunches, thinking about how if he does enough of them, the little pouch of fat surrounding his stomach might disintegrate, along with the ugly stretch marks, and along with all the hatred he feels.

 

Time goes on and he gets lost, not really feeling the burn of his abdominal muscles working anymore, unsure of how many crunches he’s completed. Kenma supposes it must be up to two hundred. Sweat forms beads on his forehead and he stops for a moment to wipe his brow. He continues on, not hearing the creak of his bedroom door as it opens and an all-too familiar face enters unceremoniously, and Kenma stops again when he hears footsteps and the weight of his friend sinking down on his bed, springs squeaking.

 

“Why?” he hears him say, and Kenma does not answer, but he gets up from the floor and sits beside him on the bed, putting a large amount of space between him and the taller, black-haired boy with furrowed eyebrows and a glint shining in the amber of his eyes.

 

“If you wanted to work out, you could’ve told me. We could’ve gone to the gym.”

 

“I wasn’t working out,” replies Kenma, clearing his throat. Kuroo looks at him, but Kenma keeps his eyes on his hands. He wishes he had his PSP, because his fingers could be occupied and not twitching, as they are currently. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be nervous, because Kuroo is his closest friend, but then again, even he didn’t know about the hours Kenma has spent doing push-ups and sit-ups and the sort. He has no idea, but he doesn’t have time to make excuses.

 

“Then what do you call doing curl-ups on your bedroom floor?” says Kuroo, a hint of sarcasm coating his words. His demeanor turns serious, though. “Kenma, seriously, what’s up?”

 

Kenma doesn’t like meeting Kuroo’s eyes, because they always make him say things when he wants to keep to himself. He does, though, and Kenma now knows that Kuroo suspects something is wrong, which is never good. Usually, there isn’t anything bothering him, because Kenma always presents himself as uncaring, but now is different. He isn’t sure what to say.

 

“Why did you even come over?” Kenma asks, not meaning to whine but his tone of voice ends up betraying him.

 

Kuroo shrugs, shoulders broad and relaxed. “I was bored.”

 

“You have other friends.”

 

“All of them are boring, too. Now come on, what were you doing just then? Trying to bulk up to impress your orange friend over at Karasuno? What was his name again...Hindleg? Hummus?”

 

Kenma gets up from where he sits on the bed, planting his feet to stand in front of Kuroo. His friend leans his weight back onto his hands, which rest slightly behind his sides. Uncautiously, he lifts up the bottom of his t-shirt, pointing to his stomach, not looking down because he wants to see the change in Kuroo’s expression.

 

“Tell me how to get rid of this. All of this,” Kenma blurts out, trying hard to keep his voice low. He puts his hand to his stomach and sighs, letting his head hang. Kuroo doesn’t answer, but Kenma feels his hands reach out and wrap themselves around his wrists, which certainly takes him by surprise.

 

“Look at me,” Kuroo mutters, and Kenma does, although his eyes are almost hidden under his mess of black bedhead. Kuroo brushes the blonde strands of Kenma’s hair behind his right ear. The touch sends shivers down his spine; they’d always been close and had no problem being handsy, but it felt different now. It felt comforting and loving, which put a pit in the center of Kenma’s gut.

 

“There’s nothing wrong with how you look. Okay?” Kuroo is speaking but Kenma has heard these words a billion times. His head is shaking back and forth in slow, rhythmic motions, and Kuroo pulls him down to sit again, this time much closer.

 

“I don’t believe that. I’ve tried, but I can’t,” Kenma whispers, more to himself than to Kuroo.

“Well I can. Look at you,” Kuroo lets his eyes fall over every inch of Kenma, who shrugs into himself to try and disappear. “I find nothing wrong with you at all. You showed me your stomach, but what’s wrong with it?” He traces his fingers down Kenma’s sides, and Kenma almost pushes him away, fearing he’ll feel the folds in his skin where his stomach starts.

 

“Kuroo, I—”

 

“You have a tummy. Everyone does. See?” Kuroo pulls his own t-shirt up, and Kenma looks for a moment but says nothing. “You have stretch marks. So what? You may still be a shorty, but it’s proof that you’ve grown, and isn’t that beautiful? The way humans are born to fill in their skin...there’s nothing ugly about it.”

 

Kenma has stopped shaking his head, and he lets his weight lean into Kuroo, who naturally puts an arm around him. Being this close to him makes Kenma’s thoughts a little hazier than normal, but he lets it happen. He lets Kuroo place a kiss on the top of his head, and he doesn’t question it.

 

“Thank you,” Kenma mumbles, turning his face so that it’s partially buried in Kuroo’s chest.

 

“You’re a human being, Kenma. It’s okay to look like one.”

 

His chest feels ready to burst, and Kuroo keeps kissing his head whenever he makes a comment about the way his legs need to be a little brawny if they want to run fast or jump high, or how even though his ears are slightly larger than normal, his hair falls in such a way as to hide it, so even though no one notices in the first place, he can take extra care to shield them. The kisses end up being planted in quick pecks on the cheek; Kenma breathes Kuroo in, finding sense in the familiar smell of pine and vanilla, feeling more at ease in this moment than he’d ever felt elsewhere.

 

Kuroo assures him he’s beautiful when their lips are the next thing connecting, and Kenma still isn’t questioning it. Kuroo’s fingers glide through his hair, and Kenma enjoys the taste of their lips together. He has an appreciation for the way Kuroo’s free hand strokes his back, not too hard but still letting himself be felt.

 

They lay there in Kenma’s bed atop the sheets for quite a while.

 

Kuroo doesn’t say much else, which is extremely uncharacteristic to Kenma, but he’s occupied kissing trails all over Kenma’s stomach, following the veins and the white marks that have formed rivets stretching over Kenma’s torso. Kuroo’s touch is warm and nice, even when he blows a raspberry above Kenma’s hipbone in a successful attempt to make him smile.

 

He’s more at ease when Kuroo falls asleep next to him, after mumbling the word ‘beautiful’ into Kenma’s ear or stomach or wherever his lips happen to be touching.

 

The next day at practice, Kenma does take off his shirt in the locker room, begrudgingly, but to the concealed delight of a blushing Kuroo who watches from the other side of the room, making sure to be on hand if anyone were to say a single word about it.

Kenma doesn’t find himself doing sit-ups anymore, either.


End file.
